“Not seriously, but one man was knocked off his chair by a bottle of vintage port flying through the air. Mind you, that was in 1922, and there was some debate as to who actually threw the bottle: Sir Henry or one of the guests. They were all a bit tipsy and Sir Henry had a fondness for vintage port, so even as a ghost he wouldn’t have thrown a bottle owing to the danger that it might break.”
Pete and Kevin smiled, certain that she was joking, but there was nothing about her deadpan expression to suggest humour.
Pete summarised the information. “So what have we got? Some Moaning Myrtle who walks about the place whining because she was topped three hundred-odd years ago, and a horny, gout-suffering wine connoisseur, who chucks the best dinner set about because he’s pigged off with being dead?”
Sceptre made an effort to excuse the spirits. “Some believe that Sir Henry really did rape her and that young Aggie was pregnant by him when she was hanged. Aggie’s alleged rape was not the first such incident. There were others before her.” Taking in their disapproval, Sceptre went on, “You have to consider Sir Henry’s position. Not only was he the local landowner, but a magistrate, too. He could not afford to have his reputation compromised by a young girl making accusations of rape, and you can imagine the fuss there would have been if she really was pregnant and she claimed him to be the father, so when the ewe conveniently gave birth to a deformed lamb, he took the opportunity to accuse her of witchcraft. Even in those days, every Englishman … or woman … was entitled to a trial by jury, but in the case of a rural community like Ashdale, Sir Henry may have picked the jury. They found her guilty and passed sentence: death by hanging. The local community would have approved, but the actual evidence is wafer-thin. As the magistrate, he was pretty quick to get the farmhands on the end of the rope, too. The tale could be no more than scuttlebutt, but it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.”
“In that case,” Pete demanded, “how come the farmhands don’t haunt the place?”
“But they do,” Sceptre assured him. “Melmerby Woods, adjacent to the manor, has many ghosts, and so do the surrounding moors.”
Pete considered her response for a moment, then asked, “If this place has such a long and violent history, how come there have been no other investigations into the hauntings?”
‘Firstly,” said Sceptre, “its history is no more violent than any other medieval manor, which is why so many of them are haunted, and secondly, other than Sir Henry’s reputation for throwing things at people, which is largely anecdotal, there is nothing to suggest that the spirits at Melmerby Manor are violent. They may have lived in violent times, but spirits spending many hundreds of years on the astral plane have the capability to learn, to advance as we have advanced from those awful times.”
Pete smiled. “You’re rationalising to account for the unaccountable. Anyway, I asked why there have been no other investigations.”
“There were,” Sceptre declared, “but they were all pre-war. When the house was opened to the public in the late fifties, Sir Jonathan banned all such investigations. He was happy for the house to enjoy a reputation for being haunted, but he refused to have visitors disturbed by paranormal investigations.” She beamed a smile of pure joy on Pete. “Until now. Pete, we are honoured. We are the first investigators to be allowed in the house since the 30s.”
He grinned. “I must make sure the glory doesn’t go to my head.”
Kevin had been thinking about the tale while Sceptre and Pete exchanged arguments. Now he spoke up. “Surely, if Aggie was up the spout, it would have shown up at autopsy?”
Peter and Sceptre exchanged a glance.
“In 1648?” asked Sceptre.
“Besides which,” Pete pointed out quite logically, “even if she told them at the trial, they’d have assumed that the bun in her oven was the spawn of Satan and that once the farmhands had rogered her, they were infected with the same evil.”
Kevin turned his back to them as the CD player began to act up. He pressed the ‘eject’ button, and the disc flew out. Kevin snatched it out of thin air and catching it as expertly as a desperate bridesmaid leaping for the bride’s bouquet, he growled, “Temperamental sod,” slotted the disc back into its case and faced his colleagues again. “I don’t know if I’m happy about all this. I mean, it’s one thing to set up cameras and stuff, but to go to a haunted house and spend the night there? I’m not sure about it all, but I will tell you this: the first sign of any knives coming at me, and I’ll vanish, like Mister Spook going back to the Starship Booby Prize.”
“You mean Mister Spock,” Pete corrected him.
“As long as he vanishes.”
Chapter Four
From the inside of his limousine, Jimmy Tate watched the rain sweep down the windscreen. It seemed to him that it was coming down faster now.
The day had dawned leaden and overcast, the rain of the last three days persistently refusing to move on. With the clock reading eleven o’clock, the temperature had dropped a degree or two, and now there were flecks of white in the downpour. It would snow before the day was out.
His brother Johnny guided the Rolls Royce Corniche up Rossington Terrace and pulled up outside the Bilks’ house.
There were times when Jimmy did not know what he would do without his younger brother. Johnny was a butler, valet, confidante, protector and junior business partner. His lean and wiry six-foot frame performed all those tasks Jimmy could not. Things like shifting the gear from the house to the van, the van to the lockup, dealing with the weekly shopping... helping him put on his socks and tying his shoelaces. The simple things Jimmy could not handle because of his disability.
Life could be very unkind. When it came to business, legitimate or otherwise, Jimmy was a wizard. His brain moved like lightning to spot the potential in almost anything. As a result, when the world of home entertainment latched onto the DVD, Jimmy Tate latched onto the concept of pirate DVDs as quickly as he had rumbled pirate videos and computer games of years earlier. His skills at breaking down security encryption to produce the pirates were what had made him a millionaire while he was still in his thirties.
And yet, if nature had been good enough to grant him a fast, technologically agile mind, it had given him a grotesquely overweight body. Other than in surprise or disgust, few women looked twice at his grotesque, 350 lb. frame, and if Nicky, his second wife, had sworn her undying love for him, he knew it had more to do with his bank balance than his looks. Jimmy Tate was a man who had learned the hard way the truth behind the maxim ‘money can’t buy happiness’. It could only make you more comfortable in your misery.
Johnny killed the engine. “Jimmy, I know it’s not my place to say so, but don’t you think you should cut your losses on this one?”
Jimmy tutted, expressing his impatience at the naiveté of younger brothers. “If I don’t deliver, I drop 50 thou, not to mention the ten grand it cost me to set up. No way am I forgetting it.” He stared moodily out at the Bilks’ terraced home.
Someone had ripped him off. 25,000 copies of Mind Games III stored in his lockup in 50 cartons, on five pallets, 10 to a pallet, had disappeared, and the only lead was a call from Bilko the previous evening. Now it was time to make Bilko talk. Johnny would make Bilko talk.
But when they finally settled into the rear kitchen, it was only to speak to a tired and drawn Angie. Bilko’s wife knew who he was, she knew who Johnny was. Not surprising since a part of the pirate producer’s living was to maintain contacts with thieves and informers like Bilko. Despite the ominous threat of Johnny cracking his knuckles, she insisted she knew nothing.
“I don’t know where he is,” she said wearily, her brow knitted into a frown of concern. “Something happened here last night, I don’t know what, and I needed him home, but as usual he wasn’t here. He rang me from Flutter-Bys, and that’s the last I heard.” She twisted and knotted a handkerchief around her shaking fingers. Her eyes were streaked and bloodshot from crying; to Jimmy, she looked like
a woman on the edge.
Jimmy came in softer in an effort to counter the towering threat of his younger brother. “Angie, he belled me early last night, telling me he had news about a DVD. Did he say anything to you?”
She shook her head, and tears formed at the corner of her eyes. “He did have a DVD with him when he got in yesterday morning. It was in the cupboard there.” She nodded at the drop down cabinet and got up to cross to it. She moved like an automaton, eyes unfocussed, steps even but automatic. She dragged down the door and looked in. “Oh. It’s gone. He must have it with him.” She suddenly looked genuinely scared. “Either that or Brennan took it last night.”
The name rang instant alarm bells with both Tates. They exchanged worried glances.
“Brennan?” asked Jimmy.
“Yeah, you know him. Pete Brennan. Used to be filth.” She sighed as she returned to her chair by the fire. “We had some sort of a disturbance here last night. Plod couldn’t handle it. Then Brennan turns up with that mate of his, Kev Keeley, and this tart; Simple Randy or someone. She reckoned it were a ghost causing the ruckus, but Brennan figured it was burglars. Anyway, he went through the house and told me it was clean. He musta looked in here, and, if he found that DVD, he coulda taken it. He was iffy when he was a cop, wasn’t he?”
Jimmy drank his tea, then struggled to bring his great frame to a standing position. “All right, Angie, we’ll split. When you see Bilko, tell him to get in touch. There’s two grand in it for him. He knows the score.”
The Tate brothers came out of the house and climbed into the Rolls.
“What now?” asked Johnny.
Jimmy stared at the rain. “I don’t like the smell of this. Not where Brennan is concerned.” He remained silent for a few more moments, his brain ticking over, eyes following the track of the wipers across the screen. At length, he came to a decision. “Put the word out on the street. The reward is now five grand.”
*****
It was one o’clock when Pete arrived and persuaded Angie to let him in.
“Like I keep telling people, Pete, I don’t know where he is,” she cried. “He never came home last night. Five’ll get you ten he was smashed out of his brains and is sleeping it off in some gutter.”
“People?” Pete asked. “What people?”
Angie shrugged. “Just people.” She avoided his eyes as she replied.
Pete considered pushing her, but she already appeared on the edge of a breakdown, so he changed tack and held up the DVD. “I found this in your kitchen last night.”
Angie’s eyes lit. She made a grab for it.
Pete held it out of her reach. “Naughty,” he rebuked her with a grin. “If Dave Robb had found this, you’d have been in trouble. That’s why I took it, and for now I’m hanging onto it. Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know nothing. Honest. You know Bilko, he never told me anything. That way, if I got pulled, I couldn’t tell, could I?”
Pete held the DVD between his thumb and forefinger as if he were weighing it. “This is one of Jimmy Tate’s pirates. If Bilko has crossed Tate, he could be at the bottom of the river by now. If he gets in touch, Angie, tell him to bell me. I’m the only thing that stands between him and street justice.”
*****
In the cellar of Flutter-Bys, Kevin heaved the last of the cartons into place and stood back, counting them. “There you go, Ronnie, 40 cases of Old Sporran whisky. Twenty-five nicker a case, that’ll be two grand.” He held out his hand for the money.
“Not so fast, Keeley.” Ronnie Wilcox, the proprietor of Flutter-Bys, the sleaziest club in town, took a drink from the sample bottle Kevin had given him, then split open the top of the nearest case and withdrew a bottle. He checked the label against the sample. It matched. Putting the bottle back, he repeated the process four times, selecting cases at random from the stacks, ensuring they contained bottles of whisky, not soft drinks.
While he carried out the spot check, Kevin took in the cellar, with its stacks of crates, galvanised metal beer barrels, and the great tuns of lager and ale. He would give his right arm to be let loose in a place like this for the night.
Eventually, satisfied that he was not being conned, Wilcox counted out the money and handed it over.
“Good on you, Ronnie,” said Kevin, folding the stash of tens and twenties and cramming it into his pocket. “I’ve gotta shoot off now. Bitta business with Bent Benny.”
Wilcox grinned, and cracked the cap on the sample bottle again. Taking a swallow from the neck, he asked, “What are you up to with that old scroat?”
“I told you. Business.” Kevin lowered his voice even though there was no one in the cellar to overhear. “Between me, you and the gatepost, I might be going into telly. See, me and Pete … you know him, Pete Brennan, used to be a cop … anyway, me and him have this new flatmate, Sceptre Rand, and she’s a psychic. She’s got permission for us to go out on a ghost hunt at Melmerby Manor. Bent Benny’s gonna supply the gear, and when we’re done, I’ll sell it to the cable channels.”
“And you’ve struck a deal with Benny?” Wilcox sounded doubtful.
“Course I have,” Kevin breezed. “He just doesn’t know about it yet. Anyway, keep an eye out for us on the Sci-Fi channel. Catch you later, Ronnie.”
*****
Leaving the Bilks’ home, Pete drove down into the town centre and Bride Street, a narrow passage just off the High Street, around the side of Flutter-Bys. He parked behind a brewery lorry delivering beer to the club, climbed out of his car and rapped on the side door.
A hatch slid open and the ugly, unshaven features of Lemmy Groom, one of Wilcox’s minders, appeared. He took one look at Pete, scowled, and announced, “We’re shut.”
Pete grabbed his hair and yanked his head through the hatch. “Well, open up before I drag the rest of you out through this hole.”
Pete pushed the door partway open and released Groom. Stepping inside, he took full advantage of his greater height to intimidate the smaller man. He loomed. He scowled. Groom cowered. “Tell your boss I want a word with him. Now.”
Groom skulked off along the narrow, dimly lit corridor with Pete behind him and into the main clubroom, where the chairs were still stacked on the tables, the stage was unlit, and the place sat quiet and dormant. The only activity Pete could see was behind the bar, where Tommy Lawson, Wilcox’s other lieutenant, was stacking bottles on the shelves, while Wilcox himself stood reading the racing pages. Pete had been here many times in the past, usually to help quell fights, and he knew that Groom was particularly skilled at feigning acquiescence and then coming up from behind. As he ambled to the bar, his eyes moved constantly watching for the sudden attack from the unexpected angle.
Wilcox looked up from his reading. His face split into a broad grin. “Get out, Brennan. We get enough scum in here when the place is open.”
Pete ignored the bravado. He laid the DVD on the bar. Suddenly, Wilcox was no longer amused, but neither was he impressed by the gesture. “I found that last night at Bilko’s drum,” said Pete. “Word is he rang Angie from here earlier in the evening. That right?”
Wilcox shrugged. “How should I know? Busy in here last night. You see him, Lem? Tommy?”
Groom and Lawson shook their heads.
“See?” said Wilcox. “Now do like I say and get out. Before I have my boys show you the door.”
Pete laughed. “These two? Show me the door? It took Groom all of three seconds to let me in, and he couldn’t show me the way out with a dog leash.” He stopped smiling. “You heard from Jimmy Tate?”
“Didn’t I just tell you, Brennan … YEEEEOW!”
The final exclamation was dragged from Wilcox’s mouth as Pete grabbed his ear and practically dragged him over the bar.
“I don’t seem to be making myself clear, Ronnie. I’m not with the filth anymore, so I don’t have to play by the rules. When I ask, you answer. It’s that simple. If you don’t, I’ll pull your ears off.”
&
nbsp; Through gritted teeth, Wilcox ordered his men. “Tommy, Lem, see to him.”
Groom and Lawson came. Pete released Wilcox, blocked an incoming fist from Groom and head-butted him. As Groom reeled, Lawson launched himself over the bar. Pete sidestepped and watched with interest as the flying thug shot past and landed on a nearby table, scattering chairs across the floor.
With a grin, Pete turned back to Wilcox. “You need to hire some professional muscle, Ronnie. These two idiots couldn’t take my sister’s kid, and he’s only ten. Now, once more from the top. Bilko rang Angie from here last night, and that DVD belongs to Jimmy Tate. So I’m putting two and two together, and I get two. Two scroats, you and Tate, rapping over the phone about this DVD. Now tell me what you’ve heard from Tate.”
“I ain’t heard nuthin’ from that fat ass. And I don’t see any reason why I should.” He gestured at the DVD. “If that’s one of his, it’s nothing to do with me. And I haven’t seen Bilko, either. Now get out, Brennan, before I bell your old boss and have you arrested.”
Tucking the pirate DVD in his pocket, Pete pointed a warning finger. “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll be back, and next time, I won’t be so pleasant.”
Chapter Five
The moors around Ashdale could be daunting even at the height of summer when tourists flocked to the area, but only the most experienced local driver would venture onto them under a turbulent and rainy November sky when the fog threatened to close in and cut them off totally from the world.
“It takes a brave man or an idiot to come this way at this time of year,” Kevin commented as Pete’s estate car crested Melmerby Hill and levelled off 500 metres above sea level.
Pete grunted. “In that case, why are we coming this way? You’re not brave and I’m not an idiot.”
In the rear seat, almost buried under a mound of cartons containing electronic equipment begged and borrowed from Kevin’s contact, Sceptre watched the desolate moors flying past, a serene, contemplative look on her face.
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